fandom: supernatural (brotherhood au)

set: 1987

tw: suicidal ideation, depression, trauma, nightmares, panic attack

word count: 2,317

notes: Happy Birthday, Jamie!

Fun fact, "Light It Up", by for KING & COUNTRY, was actually an instrumental part of me joining the Supernatural fandom. So here we are, coming full circle.

light it up and let it go.

don't you see that you're not alone?

Mac's eyes moved quickly over the medical journal's pages, drinking in the words with enough speed to make the dry way it was written bearable for the fascinating knowledge it was imparting. If only scientific breakthroughs were written with as much flavor as the novels he read with Caleb.

As if on cue with the thought of his son, the doctor jolted to his feet with a sharp wave of psychic pain. He was out of his office and sprinting downstairs before he even fully comprehended that the read was coming from the teenager who he'd left to nap on the couch with a fond smile and a blanket tossed over him.

He found Caleb in the same place he'd left him, but awake, head in his hands and nails driving into his own skin, gasping for air.

Mac rushed across the room and knelt in front of the boy, resisting the urge to lay hands on him first thing. "Caleb," he tried instead. "Son, can you hear me?"

The teenager's head jerked up and answered the question for him, but the increased fear which widened his eyes was not the desired response. His breathing became even more ragged as he pressed back against the couch, away from Mac.

The fear and withdrawal from the boy had once been a familiar scene, but it hurt to see him like that again, years past looking at Mac as the enemy.

"Hey, Caleb," the doctor tried, his tone soft but with enough strength to cut through whatever he was reliving in his head. "It's okay. It's me. It's Mac."

When the boy was in a state like this, Dad was a risky term.

"I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm here to help. You're okay. You're safe. Nothing's gonna hurt you as long as I'm here."

A little realization dawned in those wide eyes, but it was still battling with the fear from before, and it was quickly joined by deep guilt.

"I... I'm sorry," Caleb gasped, his nails driving into his head a little harder. "I'm so... I..."

"Son, listen to me." Cautiously, Mac finally did take one of the teenager's hands in his, squeezing a little. "You don't need to apologize. Just let me help you."

With the physical contact, flashes of the dream that had triggered the panic attack began playing through Mac's mind, in time with his son reliving them. The doctor saw himself with glowing yellow eyes, putting a gun to his own chin and pulling the trigger. Then he was looking in a mirror, at Caleb's reflection, and those same demon eyes were staring back at him. He heard Caleb's scream like it was coming from his own throat, saw Caleb's fist as his own colliding with the mirror he was staring at.

"Caleb." He pulled himself out of the depths of the vision with an effort, squeezing the boy's hand again. "It's over, okay? It's not real. I'm real, and I'm right here. Try to breathe with me, alright? One, two, three..."

He sucked in an exaggerated breath, rewarded with a ragged attempt at the same from the teenager in front of him.

"Good. Again. One, two, three... That's right, that's better. One, two, three... Good, Caleb. That's good. One, two, three... Yeah. Just like that. Now..." He looked around for inspiration to continue to ground his son. "Couch." He touched the piece of furniture with his free hand. "Blanket." He pointed to where it had obviously been fought off in a panic. "Lamp." He indicated the light on the end table beside the couch. "Your turn."

"Couch," Caleb managed shakily, nodding at the arm he'd been draped over. "Blanket." A deep, trembling breath. "Lamp."

"Good," Mac affirmed. "You're good. You're okay."

The boy's eyes darted anxiously around the room one more time before he let out a shuddering sigh and allowed his head and shoulders to drop. Grounded, but immediately going from panic to shame and regret.

"I'm sorry." The words were barely audible.

Mac wasted no time in moving from his position on the floor to the couch beside his son, dropping the boy's hand in favor of wrapping both arms around him. "You don't have anything to apologize for, Caleb," he reinforced quietly. "You're alright."

The teen buried his face in his shoulder as tears began to squeeze past his tightly-closed eyes. "Please don't read me."

Walls that had lapsed during the panic attack had been quickly replaced, and Mac couldn't have read him if he'd tried, but the begging tone of the question tore at his heart.

"I won't," he assured softly, hesitating before adding, "But you know I love you?"

A little nod into his shoulder.

"And you know I'm here to listen if you want to talk about it?"

Another nod, joined by a choked sob. "I don't."

"Okay." He held him a little tighter instead. "That's okay."

And it was. He would never force his son to tell him things he didn't want to. But he'd been increasingly withdrawn over the past two months, increasing his mental walls and holding Mac more and more at arm's length in a more normal sense as well.

He was putting every effort into being patient and not pushing too hard, but worry was turning to a sick feeling in his chest. Something was very, very wrong. He hadn't seen Caleb like this since he was a traumatized thirteen-year-old still fairly new to his home.

Usually, when the boy was going through a rough patch, a moment like this... a panic attack or breakdown, would bring out the truth in a tear-filled confession. But today, the only vulnerability he was getting was a desperate request not to get into his head.

Maybe it was time to call in some backup. Caleb could probably use the respite from the school he loathed anyway. And when he'd last spoken to Jim, the Winchester boys were staying at the farm while their father focused on hunting the yellow-eyed demon.

Between the gentle, perceptive pastor and the boys... Dean in particular... that Caleb was so fond of, a week at the farm couldn't do the teen anything but good.

time-skip sponsored by nathan maaaaaaaaaackinnon

The worst part was he'd really thought he was done with this.

Sure, when you'd lived through what he had, there were good days and there were bad days and you learned to ride the wave and push through the bad times because you knew there would come a light at the end of the tunnel.

If there were people who didn't have fleeting, almost casual thoughts of, Yep, if I was at the Grand Canyon right now, I'd go cliff diving without the strap, Caleb and his trauma knew they'd never be able to relate.

But staring at a potential means of self-destruction and thinking with genuine longing that he'd do it if he didn't know exactly what that would do to Mac and everyone else who cared about him? He'd thought he was past that.

A thirteen year-old had admitted that sometimes it crossed his mind... along with the promise that he'd never really do it... and Mac had made sure it didn't get worse.

Except now it had.

And that was the worst part... feeling like he was letting his adopted father down, ruining all of the love and care he'd poured into him for so long. At thirteen, he'd still been fairly newly adopted, and it made a certain amount of sense. This didn't. And to Caleb, it seemed insulting to his father that he would be grappling with these feelings all over again after so long spent in a stable, loving home.

The boy stared at the gun on the counter in front of him, willing himself to just put it away. This was stupid. He knew he couldn't. It wasn't just Mac it would kill... what about Jim, or John, and more importantly, his mentor's sons? Sammy wouldn't understand. Dean was young too, but he would, no matter what fake story they told him. And that was so much worse.

But he was so sick of this. Sick of not sleeping because when he did, he dreamed. Sick of the death visions, which had gotten worse as of late.

Sick of the jerks at school, running their mouths about how Little Orphan Caleb had been adopted by Daddy Ames. About how he'd saved him from the psych ward. Caleb had no idea how they'd found out about that, but they had, and school, which was already hell, had gotten a thousand times worse since they had. He could punch all their jaws through their skulls in a minute, but he was trying not to get kicked out of yet another private school, if only for Mac's sake. So he had to settle for reading them and insulting them back with their own insecurities. Satisfying, but it didn't make their words hurt any less.

And he was sick of the face of that first werewolf, that woman he'd killed, constantly in the back of his mind, yelling for his attention, asking how he could consider himself a good guy. Telling him he was nothing more than the demon blood running through him.

His dad knew something was up... it was pretty hard to fully keep secrets in a family of two psychics... but Caleb kept his walls up so anything he could possibly keep to himself, he did. So Mac did it the old-fashioned way, quietly asking if he was alright, offering his ear to listen if he changed his mind.

And Caleb knew he should talk to him. He knew he could help.

But that shame... that feeling that the struggle in his mind was a direct insult to his father... was too much for him. He couldn't disappoint him like that.

So here he was, alone in the kitchen of Jim's farm, staring at a glock and thinking if only.

The trip had been impromptu, following a nightmare-induced panic attack Mac had found him in the middle of. He'd said they both could use a break, some time away, and they could. It was that mid-quarter slump when it felt like spring break was never going to come, and Mac had been swamped at work as of late.

But Caleb also knew his father had been hoping a change of scenery, a second set of attentive ears in Pastor Jim, could get him to open up.

And Jim had a disarming way about him that made him easy to talk to. If it was anything less screwed up, he could do it with faith he wouldn't pass on anything Caleb didn't want him to, to Mac. But suicidal thoughts? Yeah. Those would be shared, no buts or ifs or anything. And if it was anything less screwed up, Caleb probably would have already broken down to Mac about it.

A fresh wave of self-hatred washed over the sixteen year-old, his fists tightening around the rim of the counter to keep them from reaching for the gun in front of him.

He was such a freak. He was no better than the monsters he was training to hunt, and all he wanted to do was...

"What are you doing?"

The teenager jerked around to face the young voice, and found himself staring into Dean's young, uncertain eyes.

"Uh..." He swallowed hard, desperately trying to regain his composure. "I was just thinking. You should try that sometime, Deuce."

The kid wasn't distracted by the joke, his eyes on the counter. "You're not supposed to leave guns lying around."

He sighed, double checking that the safety was on before shoving the gun into his belt and pulling his shirt down over it. "I know. I was just cleaning it and got distracted. I didn't think anyone else was here."

"Oh." A little guilt entered Dean's expression. "Sorry. I just didn't really want to go to church. Wednesday nights it's always only old people."

"You don't have to apologize, Kiddo, those were my thoughts exactly," he told the younger boy simply. "I just wouldn't have had the gun out if I knew you were here."

He glanced at the clock and nodded towards the living room. "I believe a Rangers game just started. You wanna watch? I know it's not baseball, but it's something."

Dean nodded a little and trailed him that way. "There aren't any fist fights in baseball."

"Touche," the teen conceded. "They're playing the Islanders, so if we're lucky, we'll see a good brawl."

They watched the game in silence other than the occasional groan at a good look gone unrewarded or sigh of relief when Vanbiesbrouck made a clutch save. But as they went on the final commercial break of the first period, Caleb could feel Dean's green eyes on him again, as well as the worry and even fear rolling off of the kid.

"Damien, you didn't have any cleaning supplies," he said, his voice timid. It was clear not much of his young mind had been on the hockey game. "For real, why did you have a gun out?"

Caleb turned to face him, offering up his best at an encouraging smile. "Don't worry about it, Deuce. Really. I thought I was alone. Wouldn't have had it out if I'd known you were around."

Dean frowned up at him for another long moment, clearly far from convinced. Then, Caleb started in surprise as the kid rapidly closed the distance between them on the couch, wrapping both arms around one of his with a certain, fearful desperation.

"Fine," he mumbled, half of his face smothered in Caleb's sleeve. "But you're not alone."

The teenager found himself blinking back tears as he looked down at the boy, his opposite hand coming across to squeeze a small shoulder. "Yeah, Kiddo. I got that now."